Stuck on an Island with only one book

As a former English teacher and literature lover, I am periodically asked, "What is the one book you would want with you on a deserted island?" Without a pause, my answer is always, "Jack Kerouac's On the Road." It's a book that has come and gone from my hands on several occasions, and I find myself reading it every few years--usually in the midst of a bout of wanderlust.

I first found On the Road in Scotland. Through some miracle I managed to enroll in two classes at Aberdeen University that fulfilled the requirements by Alma for a full load. The classes, Celtic Christianity and The History of the Jews, were honors level classes. This meant less time in the classroom and more time at the pub. Oh, and I had days (four each week to be exact) where I was left to my own devices. I wandered into a small bookstore near the campus one day and found Kerouac's most recognizable novel on the shelf.

It was fully ingested inside of a week. The story of Sal Paradise, the young writer in love with America, and Dean Moriarty, the young hood in love with inertia, gave me a place to reflect on my home, my culture, my life to that date. I had become cynical of America at that point in my time abroad. When asked about America (and it was one of the first questions from most students I ran into), I would often say, "America is a brilliant and immature kid. Thrust into place through sacrifice and great timing, my country has little understanding of humility. We need our country razed and rebuilt a couple times to better understand the true price of indiscriminate power." I was disturbed by my peers from The States attending Aberdeen. Their demeanor betrayed their egos. But Kerouac had a different take on the American experience.

Sal loved everything about America. The land, the people, those lost in the culture, and those creating their own culture in smoky clubs in the parts of cities avoided by many a blind citizen. He jumped for joy the first time he crossed the muddy Mississippi, and sat dumbstruck by the stars in the Great Plains. He would hitchhike for the chance to meet a stranger and hear his story. Sal was fascinated with the American experience. He wanted to know the stories of those who's American Dream had scampered off in the night.

It wasn't propaganda, though, and I think his sincere love compelled me to finish On the Road. The story is set right after WWII. The country was focused on normalcy above all else, but Kerouac bumped into many people who had no concept of this perfect life being fed to them through the media. He was fully aware of the deep sadness that hid under all the mirages being encouraged at the time. I've always felt a similar attraction to the dissident, the honest, the truth beneath the lies we tell ourselves. I see the aching eyes of a person who tells me "I'm good," and I want to know the truth (though often leave the issue unchallenged).

My psyche languishes in this "with our without us" climate in America. I am tired of war mongers creating false fears, media glossing over the lives of many who are struggling and suffering, and the general sense that we are "ok". I pine for the day laborer, the train conductor, the modern-day hobo and their intriguing stories. I long for the America that could be. A humble leader in a world where egos clash and innocent die. An informed nation that realizes the effects our day to day decisions have on the greater world. I want a country full of passionate Sals, crisscrossing this land and remembering what is beautiful and true about America--even if it isn't pretty or easy to take.